Finally it’s the heat that gets me out of my sleeping bag. I don’t wanna do it; I don’t want to deal with the broken pavement that lies 50m away. But I have to. I’m packing up and eating the last cookies I had left over from yesterday, when I see what looks to be a motorbike going towards the border. I freeze instantly and focus on the oncoming vehicle. As it gets closer, there can be no doubt: it’s a touring motorbike carrying two people. I start running towards the road, the driver sees me and stops. It’s a couple from Spain riding back to Europe. 

• Hi there! Do you have any uzbek money? I badly need to change 20$.
• I’m sorry we’re out. This is all we have left; says the man while handing me a 20.000 som bill. The equivalent of 2$. 
• Thanks a lot. It’s better than nothing. Would you happen to have any water?
• Just a little bit. We can maybe fill up half of one of your bottles.
• I’ll take it. Thanks again. What can you tell me about the road? Does it get better?
• Yeah the road is gonna get better for you in about 20km. How is it going to Beyneu?
• You’re not gonna like it. But after Beyneu, it’s great. 

We chat a bit more, I thank them again, we shake hands and go our separate ways. Well, this is just what I needed: a little water, a little money, and a big boost to the morale. I set out with renewed confidence. It’s 9.30 and it’s already pretty hot. There’s not much to see in the desert. The road is just a long, flat, straight line where you maybe spot a car every hour or so. There’s also the occasional wild camel. But that’s pretty much it. No turns, no trees, absolutely no changes in the landscape whatsoever.

And it’s hot. It’s too hot to hope riding 100km with half a bottle of water. I want to drink it all, but I only allow myself a sip every fifteen minutes or so. My mouth feels like paper. My mouth feels as dry as the desert. I watched every bottle lying on the side of the road, hoping to find a full one. Now more than ever, I regret the hours spent in my sleeping bag last night. Dumb mistakes are dumb. But mistakes you make knowing they’re nothing but dumb mistakes are even dumber. And very hard to justify. I soon realize it’s not gonna happen; I’m not gonna be able to reach the next shop with what I have left in my bottle. Something needs to happen. And it needs to happen fast.

That’s when I notice what seems to be a cargo truck straight ahead. As I get closer, I get confirmation it’s a big truck stopped on the road. I start sprinting frantically! I have to get to it before it leaves. It’s one of the longest minutes of my life. It’s my chance. If it goes away before I catch it, I may not get another. 

Completely out of breath, I reach the truck and greet the drivers. Russian is the lingua franca in this part of the world and I quickly ask for voda, which, you guessed it, means water. One of the guys goes to a tank that is located underneath the truck somewhere and proceeds to fill up my bottles with lukewarm water. Meanwhile the other guy asks me “Otkuda?” (where are you from?) After answering “Francia”, I’m virtually out of russian vocabulary and the conversation comes to an end. I show them as much gratitude as I can (Spasiba bolchoï) and get back on my bike where I drink some of the water they just gave me. Drinking lukewarm water never feels good, no matter how badly dehydrated you are. But at least, I’m now in a decent enough shape to reach Jasliq. 

On the map, the dot looks bigger than Karakalpakya. But when I get there, the village turns out to be pretty much the same size. It’s not big enough to have a bank or a hotel. It’s just big enough to have a shop with a fridge. That will do for now. Thanks to my spanish friends, I have enough money to buy either a little food and some water, or a bottle of Pepsi and some water. Thirst is far worse than hunger. Being hungry, I can deal with it. I can forget. Thirst is with you every second and never lets you the opportunity to think of something else. After so many hours spent dreaming of a cold drink, I know downing a bottle of cola is gonna feel much better than eating whatever. So I buy the pepsi. It’s almost frozen, which is perfect. I sit in front of the store slowly sipping the nectar. Kids look at me with their big eyes, wanting to talk to me but not knowing if it’s okay. I don’t mind being left alone. I stare at my phone wondering where I’m finally gonna be able to change money and get some food. The next dot on the map is pretty far and as far as I know it could be another small village deprived of any bank. There’s no way to know. Well, actually, there’s one. And it’s by getting there. So I get back on my bike and get going. 

The rest of the day is just more of the same. This straight, lonely road across the desert, as far as the eye can see. There’s a good chance I did not enjoy myself. I honestly don’t remember. But I often think of this day in the desert. This particular day. And how quiet, big and peaceful this place was. I’m not sure I liked it when I was there. But in retrospect, I’m absolutely fascinated by how empty and remote this land is and I cherish the memory of how pure was the solitude I experienced. 

I keep riding on the road whose surface has greatly improved. Sometimes the pavement completely disappears and I have to ride long stretches on gravel. But that’s okay, it’s still much better than the broken down concrete leading out of Beneyu. Around 20:30 I reach the next dot on the map. My odometer marks 238km, it’s dark and there’s nothing there. 

There’s another dot what looks like 20km away. It’s a long shot since it looks as lonely and small as all the others I’ve seen before. If there’s nothing there, I’ll have no choice but to keep going all the way to Kungrad, approximately 70km away. I don’t know much russian, but I do know “grad” means city. A real one, with banks and hotels and maybe ATM’s. Of course, after 238km on an empty stomach, I’d rather ride 20 than 70km. But that’s not up to me. I keep pedalling while trying not to get my hopes up, as to avoid being disappointed. 

After a bit less than an hour, I reach the dot which was marked Dinur, and I see about two dozens of cargo trucks parked near what looks like a big restaurant. I can hardly believe it. I really expected another tiny village. Not a busy truck stop. I feel like I’ve really hit the jackpot! 

But have I? Sure, they have food and lodging, but do they accept payment in US dollars? They cater to truckers most likely from any of the countries that are located between Turkey and China. So it would make sense to make business in dollars as well as uzbek som. The best way to know is to ask and I do just that. The waiter goes to her boss, she looks at me and nods her head: my money is good. It’s to describe how relieved and elated I am. Before making any other arrangements about spending the night, I sit down and order a plethora of food and drinks. After eating half of it, I’m stuffed. After spending so much time dreaming about this meal, it sure is disappointing. But you can’t let your stomach shrink with 36 hours of fasting and then fill it up like nothing happened. 

I pay my bill with a crisp 20$ bill for both the food and the room, and then it’s on to a well deserved shower and a good night sleep on a cosy bed. 258km, 10 and a half hours of cycling, no food. It sounds a bit crazy, but when you don’t have any other choice, you just do it. This is the kind of stuff that can happen when you’re a bit too optimistic and you have an aversion to researching the places where you’re going. The funny thing is you’d think I have learned from such an experience. But the truth is, I haven’t and I made the same mistake again several times later in this trip. But it’s okay. Surprises should be part of any long bike tour. Who wants to know everything that’s gonna happen?

One of the reason I have so many stories to tell is because I hate planning. I love the actual riding but I don’t care for everything that takes place before. Even when on a long trip, I usually plot my route in the morning. And if I have a general idea of where I’m going, I don’t mind changing my plans last minute or even mid-ride. Not only I don’t like researching the places I go, I actually enjoy discovering them with a fresh eye. Most of the time, everything works out fine. But sometimes things prove to be more difficult than I expected. Like that one time in Uzbekistan…

The story I’m about to tell takes place in 2017 as I was riding from my home to China on the famed Silk Road. After a mammoth stage the day before, I wake up late in a cheap run down hotel in a small Kazakh town called Beyneu. I live for travel and adventure, but I have to admit, some of the places I see… well let’s just say I’m really happy I don’t live there. 

After wasting too much time not doing anything in my room, I finally check out and go grab some food. It’s hard to get motivated some days and when I get going it’s way past noon. I have a small plastic bag with a few cookies and caramel nuts nougat bars in there. Enough snacks to carry me out of Kazakhstan into Uzbekistan, some 80km away. Looking at Google maps, I see I have two options to spend the night: Karapalpakya, not far from the border, or Jasliq, some 100km after the crossing. I’m almost out of Kazakh currency, which is exactly what I had planned. I have enough to buy a couple bottles of soda whenever I find a shop, which is important as the temperatures are pretty high in september in the deserts of Central Asia. 

The day before, the ride to Beyneu from Aktau, the main Kazakh port on the Caspian sea, had been fairly straightforward, if kind of boring. A long, wide, freshly paved, flat road across the desert with very few and very little towns. I expect it will be the same all the way to the border. 

It takes me ten minutes to realize I’m wrong. I’m barely out of Beyneu when the nice asphalt turns to an old broken road covered in desert sand. My 35mm wide tires are clearly out of their comfort zone. Now if you’ve never ridden a road that used to be paved and then disappeared, you must understand it’s one of the worst surfaces to ride. On this particular stretch, the superficial asphalt layer is completely gone, and what remains is just a base layer made of some sort of concrete with numerous, long and wide cracks. Cracks that you can’t see due to the sand. For the whole afternoon, it’s just me and a few lorry drivers battling on this unforgiving road. I try to ride as close as possible to the sandy shoulder. The pavement seems to be in better shape but it sometimes completely disappears and I end up riding on nothing but fine sand which, almost every time, means losing my grip and crashing, literally biting the dust. It doesn’t hurt as it’s just soft sand. But the dust ends up accumulating in my shifter which, at some point, stops working. I’m expanding a lot of energy and making very little progress. It’s hot and I’m out of water.

Luckily, soon enough I spot a small town with a shop. I grab a couple of bottles of soda, but when I look for my money, I notice I lost a bill somewhere and I can only afford a single bottle of lemonade. No problem. I’ll find water at the border or in Karalapakya.  

About five hours after leaving Beyneu, I reach the border checkpoint. It’s not the busiest in the world and I had prearranged my visa in Paris, so after fifteen minutes, I’m allowed into Uzbekistan. As soon as I’m in, money changers rush towards me. I checked the rate this morning and they’re clearly trying to scam me. Their offers are so ridiculous, I don’t even try to negotiate. I just leave, telling myself I’ll change money in Karakalpakya or withdraw some cash if there’s an ATM. As I pedal away, I hear a money changer yelling but I don’t pay attention. Maybe I should have.

Now I have spent pretty much all afternoon hoping the road would get better after the border. Five hours at 17km/h is not something I enjoy and I badly need a change. Things look good at first. The road is not covered in sand, which is good. But the improvement is marginal. The layer of asphalt survives here and there, but there’s still too many potholes and cracks to ride at a decent speed. It takes me about an hour to cover the 20km to Karakalpakya. It’s dark when I get there. A bit too dark actually. Where are the lights of the city? I take a gravel path off the main road. I soon find out that the dot I saw on google maps is not a city, nor a town. It’s a tiny village with barely any street lights, and said streets aren’t paved. No shops, no hotel and of course no ATM. This presents me with several problems. The most pressing one being that my water bottles are empty. Riding around the village, I notice a small faucet from which a little water comes out. Is it drinkable? Probably not. I still fill up one of my bottles in case of emergency. Sometimes dubious water is better than no water at all. 

I ride out of Karapalkya and back to the main road. I still have a few cookies for dinner, so it’s not all bad. Then it’s a matter of getting as close as possible to Jasliq, where hopefully I will be able to change money tomorrow. But after battling with this broken road for 6 hours, I’m mentally exhausted. And the surface doesn’t improve, far from it. An hour after leaving the village, I’ve only covered 17km. I can’t take anymore. I need a break. An hour, maybe two. I sit down on the shoulder. I’m hungry; I’m thirsty; I’m tired. I eat my nougats then I wander a bit further away from the road to lie down. Not too long. But I soon get cold so I decide I’m gonna be more comfy in my sleeping bag. And that’s my doom. I fall asleep and every hour I opt out of getting up and choose to spend another hour in the warmth of my bag.

I know it’s a bad idea. Because riding during the day, when temps are high, I will need a lot of water to get to Jasliq. The right thing to do is to ride now, to cover as much distance as possible when it’s nice and cool. But I fail to gather the mental strength necessary to get back on this hellish road. And worse than that; in a semi-sleep state, I drink all the dubious emergency water I had gotten in Karakalpakya.

When the sun gets up, I know it’s more than time to go. Yet I still can’t get up. The way I see it, it’s too late already. No matter what, I’m fucked. Leaving now or in three hours won’t change much. So I might as well keep sleeping. I close my eyes and, for a few hours, my problems go away.

to be continued…

Sitting in front of the gas station with my coffee, I use the wifi to plot my  route. ‘m in a plce called Jinyang, 247km aay from Dexing which I left the day before. This means I should have another 250km before reaching Fuzhou. But looking at the map, I realize the only way to have an itinerary that short is to use the motorway again. Fair enough. I don’t mind.

Jinyang is a big place and it takes quite a bit of time to cycle through it. Once I’m done, my mission is to find a spot to sneak in on the toll road. I’ve gotten better at this and going out an underpass, I spot a nice staircase that takes me all the way to the expressway to Fuzhou. As I’m about to climb over the rail guard, I hear honking. I lift my head up and see a police car. I immediately retreat and climb down the stairs. This is harder than it looks. I’m not sure what to do next. Should I try again? I noticed a tunnel when I was about to climb the rail guard. Which means cameras. What if they see me and send another car? They could be pissed off at the foreigner who got caught once and didn’t care enough not to do it again. I spend a long time hesitating. I have no idea how long the detour will be. It’s still early, maybe I have time to make it even with the detour. It depends on the surface and the profile, as always. Okay I’ll try it. I’d rather not get in trouble with the cops on my last day in China. 

What can I say about that detour? It was nice. Magnificent views of tea plantations. Short steep hills through lush vegetation. Quiet roads. Small villages. One long partially paved, hard climb in the heat of south China. A bit of a hike towards the top. Fraternizing with a local out on his mountain bike for the day. A nice slow day of bike touring. A detour I would have truly enjoyed if I had slept the night before and was in no rush to get somewhere. But all I could think of was “when am I going to get to Fuzhou?” 

As night is about to fall, my average speed is below 20km/h and I get my first flat. It’s a slow leak so I decide to keep riding till the next town, which is not too far and looks big on the map. I stop every ten minutes or so to get some air in my tire. Once I get to town, I find a small repair shop and leave my bike there as I go get some food. Patching another tube is something I am not willing to do if I don’t have to. With my belly full and my tire fixed, I ride around town looking for an actual bike shop where I could buy a tube but none carries my size. 

It’s dark and I am still far from Fuzhou. I have no idea if I’m gonna make it in time to get a hotel and get some rest before boarding the boat to Taiwan. If the road is flat and nice I might get there soon enough. 

Of course as soon as I get out of town the road turns out to be shitty and there is a ton of climbing. I see the hours of sleep I was counting on being taken away from me one by one. At least the first part of the last stretch to Fuzhou is quiet. It’s slow but I’m by myself. The second part though turns out tu really suck. I find myself on a road that is still crap but also surrounded by trucks. At least it’s flat. Well for a bit. Then as I’m close to reach the end, I have to climb one last big hill. 

I finally make it to Fuzhou. It’s late but I manage to grab some food real quick and most importantly, some wifi. I need to find the port where the boat to Taiwan leaves from. And that’s the final blow. Maweï, the suburb where the port is located, is 20km further. It is now 3am and that’s another hour of sleep taken away from me. I ride to Maweï as fast as I can. It’s close to 4am when I start looking for hotels.

Now you have to understand that the vast majority of hotels in China cater only to Chinese people. So finding a place to stay can be a lengthy process as there is no information available about which hotels will accommodate foreigners. I start roaming the streets, entering every hotel I see. After five or six rebutals, I do find one willing to let me a room. The price is rather steep though. Maybe something I would consider paying for a full night, but certainly not for 3 hours. I keep looking. To no avail. It’s 4:30am, in about an hour and a half McDonald’s will open its doors and I will be able to get some coffee. I decide to spend that time in my sleeping bag in the doorway of a public building. Mosquitoes keep me from sleeping but at least there’s an open restroom which allows me to clean myself a bit. 

At 6am I grab a long breakfast at McDonald’s. I only have to get to the ferry and there I will finally get some sleep. At 8am, I show up at the port after much looking around. An old man at the desk tells me the boat won’t sail today due to the weather. Apparently the wind is too strong in the strait. 

“Will the boat sail tomorrow?” 

“Maybe…” 

Now that’s helpful. 

Okay so here I am. Last day on my visa. I am supposed to get out of China or face the consequences. Which can go from a fine to a few days in jail followed by a ten year ban. I’d rather avoid any of it, so I head to the police station hoping they can extend my visa to tomorrow, when “maybe” the ship will sail. For the random traveler, the Chinese police are usually kind and helpful. A lady officer happens to speak a  bit of English which helps a lot. Unfortunately the only alternative they present me with is getting on a fast train to Shenzen and cross the border to Hong-Kong. No thank you. I’d rather get some sleep. Too bad about the overstay.

Miraculously the first hotel I walk in is fine with foreigners and rather cheap. Where was it last night when I needed it? I have no idea. I probably rode past it without seeing it. Not only are they fine with foreigners, they don’t mind an early check-in. And even though it’s only 9am, I get the keys to a room. The best part is, it has no windows, which is perfect if you wanna sleep 20 hours like I intend to. Needless to say going under the covers was pure bliss. 

The next morning I show up at the dock well rested. “Is the boat sailing today?” “No. Bad weather”… Of course. 

Well that sucks but I’m gonna have to fly. I check the nearest airports. A flight from Fuzhou is 300$. A flight from Wenzhou, 200km away from here is 100$. Even if I throw in the cost of the train and the taxi, that is twice as cheap. Alright let’s do that. First I need to pack my bike, otherwise I can’t board the train. But where do I find a bike box? I start riding around the train station, making wider and wider circles. It lasts for about an hour until I find a furniture shop. Great! They give me a box and I’m off to the station. I buy my ticket and start packing. I have 30 minutes to fit my bike into a nondescript cardboard box. That’s tight. But I can make it. I’m an expert at packing my bike last minute. Or at least so I think. Turns out I’m a bit presumptuous and when I show up at the dock the train has left a couple minutes ago. I’ll have to take the next and I’m already on a very tight schedule. I get food and drinks before boarding the train then roam around the station looking for wifi. Just my luck. Can’t find any. Which means I can’t buy that plane ticket. Okay, I’ll figure it out. Time to board the train. Maybe there’ll be wifi on board. 

Of course there is no wifi on board. That would be too convenient. When I get to Wenzhou there is not a lot of time left to make it to the airport. I jump into a taxi and show him the ideogram on my phone. He immediately starts pushing the gas pedal. He’s frantic, insulting anyone who’s stupid enough to be in his way. I obviously do not understand a word he says but by the tone of it, it can’t be nice things. He drives like a madman to the airport and even though it’s a bit scary, I have to say I’m happy when we get there on time.

Now there’s wifi at the airport, but it’s too late to buy the ticket online because the plane leaves in less than an hour! I run across the airport to the ticket counter. “Can I buy a ticket to Taiwan?” Yes. “Can I pay by credit card?” No … I start running in the other direction where the ATM’s are. My first attempt at withdrawing money is unsuccessful. I try a different card. Jackpot! My hand full of money I run back to the ticket counter. There you go, miss. I’m the last one at the check-in. I drop my box and proceed to customs and immigration. 

Now I have a secret weapon in case the officer is too displeased about my overstay. I asked a Chinese speaking friend in Paris to write a little text explaining my situation. I play the honesty card and apologize about my day of overstay while handing my passport. The officer looks at me and frowns. “Okay… But next time, careful.” “Oh for sure officer! For sure! Sorry again!” 

I reach the gate and board the plane. I sit down, elated. I did it. I escaped from China.

https://www.komoot.com/tour/283836045

July 13, 2014. While almost everyone is impatiently awaiting the World Cup final, I set off from Banff, Canada (where I landed the day before), with the objective of reaching the Mexican border in 5 weeks at the most. Why 35 days? Simply because after that I have to go back to work. This adventure has a name: the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route – a course designed by Adventure cycling America that runs all the way to Antelope Wells, New Mexico.

53,000m of elevation gain spread over 4,400km of stony, dusty, muddy mountain roads, paths and tracks. All across some of the least populated states in the United States. A dream that I have been chasing for three years and that I am finally about to realize. Now you know me as an ultra-cyclist who specializes in off-road races and has won some of them. But I wasn’t raised with my rubber on the dirt. I’m a city boy and if I had a solid bike touring experience in 2014, with several trips in Asia and Europe, I had virtually no off-road experience. That seems a bit crazy when you’re about to embark for a journey that will be unpaved for 80% of its length, but that’s how it is. Even crazier is the bike I chose for this endeavour. A titanium cross bike with 35c’s tires. I built it with flat bars, disc brakes and a 3×10 shimano SLX groupset, but still. Not the ideal rig for the job. 

It’s around 1p.m. when I leave Banff. In the morning, I had to shuttle on a bus from Calgary where I had spent the night. Then I had to take my bike out of the box, put it back together, get a quick lunch, and a few other things … Hence this late departure.

My goal for today is the small town of Elkford, 170km from here. Knowing what I know now, I realize how foolish I was to think I could ride that far leaving so late. But hey, I’m of the optimistic type, and this will never change.

The first pedal strokes are exhilarating, obviously. A bright sunny summer day, a dirt road in the forest, the sound of my tires rolling on the gravel … I push a good pace and pass a few mountain bikers out for the day. Quite quickly, I arrive at a bridge under construction. Alright … it’s mountain biking so it involves river crossings. No problem. Let’s do this. We laugh about it with a couple of other cyclists who get their feet wet in the freezing cold water. But what I fail to realize at that point is that I am wasting precious time. The reason is that instead of crossing with my shoes on, I decide to take them off, make a first crossing with my stuff and then a second one with the bike.

I then end up on a large gravel road where a few cars proceed to lose me in thick clouds of dust. Whenever I can see, it’s rather pretty out there. I even spot what seems to be a wolf not far from the road. Not too long after that, as I’m riding on a nice single track between the pines, I hear an unpleasant noise and come to a stop. I look at my bike and consider the damage. The chain broke, taking the front derailleur with it and breaking it as well. This is what we call a good start. I shorten the chain, removing the link that failed, and remove my derailleur as well. Off I go. A few kilometers further, fast downhill, pinched inner tube, puncture. More wasted time.

I am not worried yet since I managed to keep a good average. But it’s about to drop dramatically. Soon I find myself having to climb my first pass. Steep gradients, rough surface, the occasional mud patch, not to mention the 8 hours of jet lag I have to deal with … It’s simple: I’m stuck to the ground.

I look at my gps and quickly realize that I won’t get to Elkford until dark.

Lucky for me, I get to the Boulton store before closing time. This lone shop near a campground allows me to resupply. A drink, a sandwich and a brownie in my hands, I leave the store to get back to my bike. I don’t know how far I’ll go but at least I won’t starve. It’s getting colder and before hitting the road, I decide to put on some warmer clothes. I have to be quick as, in a matter of seconds, I’m surrounded by hordes of bloodthirsty mosquitoes. In a semi-panic state, I hop on my bike and flee. 

Now there’s one thing I need to explain before going on. I had a lot to plan for this trip. I bought a frame and built it the way I thought would be best suited for this adventure. I also spent quite a bit of time researching ways to travel as light as possible. Especially regarding my camping gear. I never traveled with camping gear before, staying in dirt cheap hotels instead. But on the GDMBR, there’s not enough hotels and they’re certainly not as cheap as the one in South East Asia. I figured the lightest setup would be a homemade tarp. So I bought some silnylon, rope and a mosquito net. I had an idea in mind but I ended up not having time to finalize it. So I’m basically out there, without a shelter for the night, in the heart of the summer, in this lake region with millions of mosquitoes looking for a meal. 

Every time I see what seems to be a hospitable place where I could maybe spend the night, as soon as I slow down and contemplate the idea of stopping, the little bloodsuckers swarm and start feasting, forcing me to make a run for it. I keep riding, exhausted and a little demoralized, knowing I’m gonna have to continue in the light of my headlamp. Feasible, but not ideal.

When dusk is upon me and the last bits of daylight give way to darkness, I notice a small wooden house. Both curious and hopeful, I get off my bike and walk to it. I push the door and, to my amazement, it appears it is open. I can hardly believe it! It looks like I just found the perfect shelter to spend my first night on the Great Divide. From what I understand, it’s a self-managed hiker’s refuge of some sort (“user maintained recreation site”) known as Mile 70 cabin. Known by people who do their research before riding, but not by fools like me. There’s no water and no electricity, just two bunk beds, a table, a few chairs. But it’s all I really need. There’s a candle on the table. I light it and settle down. I eat my sandwich, half of my brownie and my banana. It’s perfect here. So remote, quiet and secluded.  It’s such an unexpected end to this day. 

I have never been and never will be a fan of camping. There’s something I love about the comfort of bed, four walls and a roof. I just sleep better, with a real peace of mind. So finding this cabin, it’s a dream for me. 

I remember parts of the ride, and it sure was nice. But the highlight of this day for me, the thing I’ll never forget, that’s the relief I felt when the door opened, and the peace in my own little cabin. This tiny house standing between me and the vast and somehow hostile wilderness. Don’t get me wrong: I love nature. But when darkness comes, I just need a break from it. I need not to worry about animals, insects, rain, cold and whatever can happen out there. This little home in the woods is one of my fondest memories of years of bikepacking. The ride may not have been as hard as the one between Murgab and Sary-Tash. But the uncertainty was far greater and the surprise unforeseeable. In my previous story, the ride was exceptional and the ending as well. Here it’s different. The ride was far from unforgettable, but the getting there now that was something!

It’s been ten years and more or less 100.000 km. So maybe it’s time to tell the stories of my travels. Before I got into cycling, I had no stories, now I have too many. 

I’m sure it’s true that a lot of people have ridden further, seen more places and have been on the bike for way longer. But I haven’t met many people that have the same approach to bike touring that I do, that are driven by the same motives. Hopefully this approach might help me tell different stories and shed some light on other aspects of riding bikes. 

How many people ride overnight to see what it’s like? Not many I guess. What would be the point anyway? Wouldn’t it defeat the purpose of bike touring which, I think for many, is simply to get there? Isn’t the moment when you finally get off the bike after a long day, the one that holds the key? Maybe. 

It is indeed the moment when we collect the rewards. It is that time when a hot shower feels heavenly, any food tastes delicious and the comfort of a bed is enough to put a big smile on our face. It is a very basic principle that pretty much everyone is familiar with: the harder you work for it, the more you think you deserve it, the better it feels. 

A bit more than a year ago, somewhere in Colombia, I rode my bike for a day of mostly paved downhills. A bit before dusk I got to a small town where I had planned to stay. I sat down to eat an early dinner and look at my lodging options. I found a few good places but couldn’t convince myself to book one. Something felt wrong. Stopping now seemed weird for some reason. It took me some time to figure it out, but the reason was: it all had been too easy. I missed the hardship of my usual rides; the bad roads, the endless climbs, the descent in freezing temperatures. I felt like it was not time to stop as the rest I was about to get was not one I had earned. 

So, I got back on my bike as the night had settled, and rode another 25 km. Half of it on tarmac and the other half on a hellish gravel road, through the thick, hot and humid air typical of these equatorial latitudes. It took much longer than I anticipated and I hated it. But, in a way, this was exactly what I had been looking for without even knowing it. When I got to the next town, stopping seemed right. I looked for a hotel, found a decent one and then went out for a second dinner.

It seems ironic to say that the essence of bike touring might actually reside in being stationary. It might not be 100% accurate, as the passion for touring is a fairly complex one. Yet I feel there’s some truth to it. What are some of my fondest memories of ten years of cycling the world? I can cite two. Two journeys that are deeply engraved in my memory and will be as long as I am alive. Two rides that are the story of a hardship and how the way they ended immediately justified them. And these two ride will be the subjectw of my next posts. So stay tuned.